So I owe you guys a post, fine. Fine.
But, psst, this isn't going to be that interesting, it's just a rant. And has nothing to do with boys, Canadian or otherwise.
(I'm actually settling down quite nicely in that department though, and find myself 24% less psychotic than I was last week, which is a lovely development.) (He is still talking non-stop about visiting me, but instead of going all Boil-a-Bunny on him about "when, when, when!?!" I am merely ignoring it and just being like "I guess we'll just see aboot that when it actually happens, eh?") (Very proud of this development.) (Okay, onto the "real" post.)
I just have a quick thought:
Does this happen to anyone else? :
This year, I have been to the movies a woefully inadequate number of times. I think maybe three or four. I used to go to the movies once a week at least, no seriously. I LOVE MOVIES.
So this year has sucked for me for movies. None of my NH friends ever wants to go, or when they do want to go I have plans, or they have plans when I want to go, and I haven't managed to get to the theater to go alone enough because, again, plans, always plans (when did I get so goddamn busy, and why do I still feel so lonesome all the time?)....and anyway.
But whenever this happens, whenever I have this lag where I don't get to the theater, I think, "well I will just buy them or rent them or whatever when they come out."
And then after months pass and the movies are long gone from the theaters, I'll find myself in a video store with absolutely nothing to rent, or I'll just buy a three-in-one DVD crap set from Target of like, "Wimbledon" (seen it twice), "The Wedding Date" (constantly on HBO, seen it, and Debra Messing's scary protruding sternum, more times than I'm willing to admit), and fucking "The Perfect Man," a travesty of Hillary-Duff-Before-She-Got-So-Skinny proportions.
What is my problem?
Movies I Still Haven't Seen But Will Probably Forget About By the Time They Come On DVD:
All the stupid "threequels" (Shrek 3, Ocean's 13, Spiderman 3, Pirates of the Caribbean 3)
The Bourne Ultimatum (mmmm, Matt Damon, mmmm)
Superbad
300
Transformers
3:10 to Yuma (Okay so this one I still have plenty of time for, I'm just reminding myself)
Live Free or Die Hard
Fantastic Four
I could honestly go on and on. And yet 6 months from now when I'm finally signing up for Netflix or something I won't remember this. Hence? This blog post for reference.
Now I must get back to work.
September 20, 2007
September 16, 2007
Bleh-mmys
I was going to live-blog the Emmys.
But then my birthday party happened, and I was way too hungover all day today to do anything but remain where I've been since noon. Curled up under a blanket. I did order pizza though. Way to ruin my diet that I've been on for like 6 days.
(Buffalo wings too!)
(Good lord.)
Oh, and also on tonight?? Red Sox vs Yankees. And Pats vs Chargers. Jesus. Too much good TV all in one time slot. But I can't make fun of fashion and the Gayness of Ryan Seacrest while watching sports.
One note: Jeremy Piven just won, and looks like he rolled out of his bed (which he was probably sharing with three Brazilian hookers and a pound of coke) about 10 minutes ago. Take a shave, Piven, it's the EMMYS.
But then my birthday party happened, and I was way too hungover all day today to do anything but remain where I've been since noon. Curled up under a blanket. I did order pizza though. Way to ruin my diet that I've been on for like 6 days.
(Buffalo wings too!)
(Good lord.)
Oh, and also on tonight?? Red Sox vs Yankees. And Pats vs Chargers. Jesus. Too much good TV all in one time slot. But I can't make fun of fashion and the Gayness of Ryan Seacrest while watching sports.
One note: Jeremy Piven just won, and looks like he rolled out of his bed (which he was probably sharing with three Brazilian hookers and a pound of coke) about 10 minutes ago. Take a shave, Piven, it's the EMMYS.
September 13, 2007
So? THEN What?
I'm a big fan of "He's Just Not that Into You" (HJNTIY). It's incredibly sensible, if a bit harsh on the dudes at times (I mean really, they're NEVER too busy to call? What if they get hit by a bus or something?). Regardless, I like the principle: if a guy's into you, it's obvious. If he's not? It's still obvious, you just have to read the signs right.
But honestly? It depresses me. Because according to this book, no guy is *ever* into me. No, seriously! So fine, it's easy to see when guys don't like me, but what exactly are we supposed to DO with that info? Aside from feel like ass?
You see my point.
Take the Canadian guy. He likes me, but probably not enough to put in the money and effort of starting something up long distance. And I don't even blame him, it would actually be really hard. But my knowing this based on my HJNTIY Evidence doesn't make me feel better about it.
It blows, because now I have to cut off contact with him.
I mean, because that's the test, right? That's what it says in the book. Suspect the object of your affection is just not that into you? Stop calling, and stop emailing. And see what happens. If he IS into you, he's going to call and see what's up, or at least email. And if not? You'll probably never hear from him again. See also: Paul Giamatti.
But the book doesn't have a chapter on how not to feel depressed afterwards. I hate nothing more than that "back to the drawing board" type feeling. Argh.
Oh well, you bitches have listened to me bitch about my love life long enough.
"Bitching about my love life" is the new "bitching about my weight!" It's good times all around.
But honestly? It depresses me. Because according to this book, no guy is *ever* into me. No, seriously! So fine, it's easy to see when guys don't like me, but what exactly are we supposed to DO with that info? Aside from feel like ass?
You see my point.
Take the Canadian guy. He likes me, but probably not enough to put in the money and effort of starting something up long distance. And I don't even blame him, it would actually be really hard. But my knowing this based on my HJNTIY Evidence doesn't make me feel better about it.
It blows, because now I have to cut off contact with him.
I mean, because that's the test, right? That's what it says in the book. Suspect the object of your affection is just not that into you? Stop calling, and stop emailing. And see what happens. If he IS into you, he's going to call and see what's up, or at least email. And if not? You'll probably never hear from him again. See also: Paul Giamatti.
But the book doesn't have a chapter on how not to feel depressed afterwards. I hate nothing more than that "back to the drawing board" type feeling. Argh.
Oh well, you bitches have listened to me bitch about my love life long enough.
"Bitching about my love life" is the new "bitching about my weight!" It's good times all around.
September 12, 2007
Wow
This might be the greatest thing I've ever seen. It took me a minute to figure out this was a guy. Love his eye makeup!
Dear Britney
You sucked the other night. You should really wear better clothes, and practice your routines while WEARING those 5 inch boots. Oh, and if it were me making a "comeback," I'd have insisted on a bigger, badder production, wtf was up with the 10 dancers and teensy tiny stage? Sheesh. Also, next time start with a nice medley of your older, awesomer work. That being said:
YOU'RE NOT FUCKING FAT.
YOU'RE NOT FUCKING FAT.
Jesus CHRIST what is wrong with the world. I'd reckon there are millions of girls besides myself who'd probably sacrifice a couple of digits to have this body. So give it a fucking REST, people. This is why little girls grow up with thighs smaller around than my goddamn wrists.
September 11, 2007
I Should Get Me One of These
According to Jezebel, Harrod's of London hired a cobra to "guard" a pair of $120,000 sandals.
Someone explain why these shoes are so sweet in the first place, but I can't help but admire the slickness of this move--plus, that cobra? Actually kinda cute. I should get my own shoe snake.
"G'head, come and tryyyy to steal this shoe! I dare ya," he seems to say...
Someone explain why these shoes are so sweet in the first place, but I can't help but admire the slickness of this move--plus, that cobra? Actually kinda cute. I should get my own shoe snake.
"G'head, come and tryyyy to steal this shoe! I dare ya," he seems to say...
September 8, 2007
The FuManchShoes 100th Post Semi-Spectacular Excellence Post for Being Excellent
Alternative title for this post - Dump what out, exactly? (I'll explain later)
Ah, the 100th entry. For my 100th entry on my very first blog in the stone ages of 2001, I did a cheesy 80s sitcom retrospective, where I took a contrived "event of significance" (buying my first car) as an excuse to reflect, just without the awesome "blurry screen of implied flashback."
Instead, how about we just give some updates on my current life, eh? Considering, as my friend Sara bitches to me constantly, I haven't updated since "August 20th! August, 20, Fu...wtf!"
We'll work backwards from right now, I like that gimmick.
Right now: Eating chicken soup and taking in "Desperado" on TNT, which isn't as good when so heavily edited, but still holds up. Is there anything Steve Buscemi makes an appearance in that *isn't* awesome? Sidebar: Just saw a commercial for the "Vagisil Home Screening Kit," which featured a woman talking about her burning cooch and wondering how she could possibly know whether she had an infection. Ummmm....Why would anyone with a burning cooch go out and buy some home swabbing kit to see if they had a yeasty? I mean, good god woman! It's called a gyno. Look into it. Can you imagine being the store clerk that has to check that one out at the register. I'd probably pop a blood vessel trying not to laugh. Me = Mature.
Last night: Out on the town in Manch Vegas as usual, managed to spend seventy effing dollars, which explains why we ended up walking home. It's only a mile, but I defy you to undertake such a crusade. In high heels. With skeevy Manch types asking you "where's the party?" and honking at you from their drunkenly careening automobiles. Then there's the creepy dudes hanging out on the porch, who asked us to "dump 'em out." "Umm, dump what out?" "Your titties, what did you think!?" Ooooh, dear.
Tuesday Night: My biiiirthday, my b-b-b-b-b-irrrrthday! Man, 28 years on the planet. You'd think I'd have more to show for it than a pile of wicked nice shoes and potential liver damage.
Last Weekend: In DC, where I dared to ask the question, "can a person who was up until 5 in the morning the previous night make it through a dainty bridal shower tea party with zero alcohol and live to tell about it?" The answer, sadly, a resounding "Oh, hell no." Have you ever had massive detox shakes while attempting to tell a story about the bride and groom for every peanut M&M in your hand? Yeah. Good times!
August: Busy month of birthday parties, road trips, beach outings, nights on the town, way, waaay, waaaaay too much alcohol, and jsut general shenanigans and good times.
SO, yeah. That's about it.
Oh, you probably need the Obligatory Update on My Love Life.
ManchGuy: He looked a little like Paul Giamatti, he was nice enough, but definitely gave off "just not that into me" red flags left and right. So I cut him loose, and he didn't put up much of a fight about it. Eat it, Paul Giamatti.
Ah, the 100th entry. For my 100th entry on my very first blog in the stone ages of 2001, I did a cheesy 80s sitcom retrospective, where I took a contrived "event of significance" (buying my first car) as an excuse to reflect, just without the awesome "blurry screen of implied flashback."
Instead, how about we just give some updates on my current life, eh? Considering, as my friend Sara bitches to me constantly, I haven't updated since "August 20th! August, 20, Fu...wtf!"
We'll work backwards from right now, I like that gimmick.
Right now: Eating chicken soup and taking in "Desperado" on TNT, which isn't as good when so heavily edited, but still holds up. Is there anything Steve Buscemi makes an appearance in that *isn't* awesome? Sidebar: Just saw a commercial for the "Vagisil Home Screening Kit," which featured a woman talking about her burning cooch and wondering how she could possibly know whether she had an infection. Ummmm....Why would anyone with a burning cooch go out and buy some home swabbing kit to see if they had a yeasty? I mean, good god woman! It's called a gyno. Look into it. Can you imagine being the store clerk that has to check that one out at the register. I'd probably pop a blood vessel trying not to laugh. Me = Mature.
Last night: Out on the town in Manch Vegas as usual, managed to spend seventy effing dollars, which explains why we ended up walking home. It's only a mile, but I defy you to undertake such a crusade. In high heels. With skeevy Manch types asking you "where's the party?" and honking at you from their drunkenly careening automobiles. Then there's the creepy dudes hanging out on the porch, who asked us to "dump 'em out." "Umm, dump what out?" "Your titties, what did you think!?" Ooooh, dear.
Tuesday Night: My biiiirthday, my b-b-b-b-b-irrrrthday! Man, 28 years on the planet. You'd think I'd have more to show for it than a pile of wicked nice shoes and potential liver damage.
Last Weekend: In DC, where I dared to ask the question, "can a person who was up until 5 in the morning the previous night make it through a dainty bridal shower tea party with zero alcohol and live to tell about it?" The answer, sadly, a resounding "Oh, hell no." Have you ever had massive detox shakes while attempting to tell a story about the bride and groom for every peanut M&M in your hand? Yeah. Good times!
August: Busy month of birthday parties, road trips, beach outings, nights on the town, way, waaay, waaaaay too much alcohol, and jsut general shenanigans and good times.
SO, yeah. That's about it.
Oh, you probably need the Obligatory Update on My Love Life.
ManchGuy: He looked a little like Paul Giamatti, he was nice enough, but definitely gave off "just not that into me" red flags left and right. So I cut him loose, and he didn't put up much of a fight about it. Eat it, Paul Giamatti.
Oh, Canada: The Canadian Guy. Well....god only knows. He is allegedly coming to visit in October. We still email back and forth with a frenzy generally reserved for more physical activities. You know, like ping pong. Or beer pong, for that matter. Regardless, to put on my "dorky chick hat" for a couple seconds, "I rilly rilly rilly rilly rilly rilly like him." But I guess we're just still on "wait and see" status. And don't even get me started on how terrified I am that he's going to get off the plane, take one look at my fat ass and be like "Um, wow, how much did I drink the night met again? Oh, man." and then just leave. The paranoia fatties subject ourselves to is surreal. It's not like he doesn't have access to two dozen different photos of me on Facebook and stuff, and it's not like he's Tom Brady himself, and yet, I sit here and stew about it.
Speaking of Tom Brady, are we ready for some football?!? Mmmmm.....
Speaking of Tom Brady, are we ready for some football?!? Mmmmm.....
August 20, 2007
Blame Canada (eh?)
So, yeah, not sure what to do about Canada, then (eh?).
I, FuManchLonesomeShoes, find myself kind of swimming in guy issues at the moment. Because on one level I've got a cool guy that seems pretty into me here. Probably best to just see what happens there, yes? Sure. And that is indeed what I'm doing, I'm not a complete idiot.
Well, I did say not complete idiot. Which means I am, at the very least, a partial idiot.
Which is why I've been emailing several times a day, all day long, with a Canadian guy I made out with in Montreal more than two weeks ago.
Sigh.
(pounds head on desk)
He's adorable, he makes me laugh, he cares about his job, he cares about his mom, he has a CAT (very key), he likes to drink but isn't a lush, he cleans a lot, is kind of dorky in a good way, and did I mention that totally cute makes me laugh thing again?
Oh and then there's the other little thing: he wants to come visit as soon as he gets a chance.
(pounds head on desk)
Scenario One: I continue seeing Guy #1, eventually Canada wants to visit, what if me and Guy #1 are like, involved by that point? Do I dump him or make some story up for why I need to not be available to him for the weekend? (pounds head)
Scenario Two: I keep things as casual as possible with Guy #1, and tell him the truth when Canada comes to visit. This seems most sane, but really I don't know how to do that. It seems wrong, and if I were Guy #1 I'd definitely be like "WTF, mate?" if I were seeing a chick I was into and she all of a sudden had some hump from Canada staying in her bed for a weekend. I mean, come on.
Scenario Three: Don't a say a fucking thing to either one of them about the other and figure it out when the time comes.
I think I'm going with three. After all, just because I talk to him every day doesn't mean I need to...what? Be faithful? to Canada. I mean, he's ten hours away from me, it's hardly going to work out.
On the other hand, if I had to choose one or the other right now, I'd rather keep emailing with Canada every day than continue dating the guy WHO ACTUALLY LIVES HERE.
I clearly have issues.
I, FuManchLonesomeShoes, find myself kind of swimming in guy issues at the moment. Because on one level I've got a cool guy that seems pretty into me here. Probably best to just see what happens there, yes? Sure. And that is indeed what I'm doing, I'm not a complete idiot.
Well, I did say not complete idiot. Which means I am, at the very least, a partial idiot.
Which is why I've been emailing several times a day, all day long, with a Canadian guy I made out with in Montreal more than two weeks ago.
Sigh.
(pounds head on desk)
He's adorable, he makes me laugh, he cares about his job, he cares about his mom, he has a CAT (very key), he likes to drink but isn't a lush, he cleans a lot, is kind of dorky in a good way, and did I mention that totally cute makes me laugh thing again?
Oh and then there's the other little thing: he wants to come visit as soon as he gets a chance.
(pounds head on desk)
Scenario One: I continue seeing Guy #1, eventually Canada wants to visit, what if me and Guy #1 are like, involved by that point? Do I dump him or make some story up for why I need to not be available to him for the weekend? (pounds head)
Scenario Two: I keep things as casual as possible with Guy #1, and tell him the truth when Canada comes to visit. This seems most sane, but really I don't know how to do that. It seems wrong, and if I were Guy #1 I'd definitely be like "WTF, mate?" if I were seeing a chick I was into and she all of a sudden had some hump from Canada staying in her bed for a weekend. I mean, come on.
Scenario Three: Don't a say a fucking thing to either one of them about the other and figure it out when the time comes.
I think I'm going with three. After all, just because I talk to him every day doesn't mean I need to...what? Be faithful? to Canada. I mean, he's ten hours away from me, it's hardly going to work out.
On the other hand, if I had to choose one or the other right now, I'd rather keep emailing with Canada every day than continue dating the guy WHO ACTUALLY LIVES HERE.
I clearly have issues.
So I Guess Every Monday I'll Just Post a Bunch of Times or Something
Today, I was drug-dialed.
So the guy I was bitching about last week has turned out decent. We went out Friday, it was fun, blah blah blah.
What? You want more an explanation than blah blah blah?
Okay, hm.
1) It had been so long I didn't remember what he looked like. Luckily, he looked fine. He's not like, kill yourself hot or anything, but can I just say thank god? That's so much pressure. That super-tall super-unbelievably-cute lawyer I dated last summer didn't do anything but stress me out, because I kept waiting for him to stop and be like "Wait, is this 'The King of Queens' in reverse or something? Why am I dating you again?"
2) We went out, watched the Red Sox game, ate, drank blueberry beer, talked. He paid, he opened doors, all very gentlemanly and such.
3) It's possible the wheels came off when I suggested we go to the karaoke bar after the game.
4) No, it's possible the wheels came off when we did our second shot and I finished off my seventh (eighth?) beer. Getting plastered on a date (a first date! Oy vey.) is probably not considered ladylike. But hey, he kept buying them, what was I supposed to do? Ummmm, yeah.
5) It's definitely likely the wheels actually came off when I warbled out some of the worst karaoke I've ever done. I was nervous, leave me alone. But you know how they say you shouldn't go all the way on the first date? It should really be, you shouldn't sing in public on the first date. This is way more mortifying than any of the macking I doled out later.
So yeah. We hung out at my place for a while after, he called the next day, and then called again today. But we don't have plans to go out again because when he called me today he was on Vicodin.
Oral surgery, apparently. He sounded kind of...well...kind of retarded. Or like he'd been hit over the head. Punch drunk! He talked like Rocky, like all slow and garbled.
"I's jush wann say...I's jush say....um.."
"Really, you've just had your wisdom teeth out, you can call me when you feel better, dum dum."
"No, Ish furgets to call youse yeshterday, so I jush wann call joo tooday."
"Okay, well thank you, but do you want to call me when you're not on drugs?"
"Yesh....yesh."
Yikes. I'm not sure if it was cute or weird, but I'll settle on cute.
So that's that. We'll see what happens. I'm not convinced this is going anywhere, but there's no harm in doing some dating, eh?
Which brings me to the next issue...notice the way I said "eh?" just then?
So the guy I was bitching about last week has turned out decent. We went out Friday, it was fun, blah blah blah.
What? You want more an explanation than blah blah blah?
Okay, hm.
1) It had been so long I didn't remember what he looked like. Luckily, he looked fine. He's not like, kill yourself hot or anything, but can I just say thank god? That's so much pressure. That super-tall super-unbelievably-cute lawyer I dated last summer didn't do anything but stress me out, because I kept waiting for him to stop and be like "Wait, is this 'The King of Queens' in reverse or something? Why am I dating you again?"
2) We went out, watched the Red Sox game, ate, drank blueberry beer, talked. He paid, he opened doors, all very gentlemanly and such.
3) It's possible the wheels came off when I suggested we go to the karaoke bar after the game.
4) No, it's possible the wheels came off when we did our second shot and I finished off my seventh (eighth?) beer. Getting plastered on a date (a first date! Oy vey.) is probably not considered ladylike. But hey, he kept buying them, what was I supposed to do? Ummmm, yeah.
5) It's definitely likely the wheels actually came off when I warbled out some of the worst karaoke I've ever done. I was nervous, leave me alone. But you know how they say you shouldn't go all the way on the first date? It should really be, you shouldn't sing in public on the first date. This is way more mortifying than any of the macking I doled out later.
So yeah. We hung out at my place for a while after, he called the next day, and then called again today. But we don't have plans to go out again because when he called me today he was on Vicodin.
Oral surgery, apparently. He sounded kind of...well...kind of retarded. Or like he'd been hit over the head. Punch drunk! He talked like Rocky, like all slow and garbled.
"I's jush wann say...I's jush say....um.."
"Really, you've just had your wisdom teeth out, you can call me when you feel better, dum dum."
"No, Ish furgets to call youse yeshterday, so I jush wann call joo tooday."
"Okay, well thank you, but do you want to call me when you're not on drugs?"
"Yesh....yesh."
Yikes. I'm not sure if it was cute or weird, but I'll settle on cute.
So that's that. We'll see what happens. I'm not convinced this is going anywhere, but there's no harm in doing some dating, eh?
Which brings me to the next issue...notice the way I said "eh?" just then?
Poor Superintendent Ephardt
Donna Martin graduates! Donna Martin....maybe shouldn't have gotten shitfaced and barfed at senior prom.
This episode kills me as an adult because I have a big problem with how the West Beverly school board just rolls over for the supremely douchey Brandon Walsh and his supremely douchetastic pompadour.
And the way he mouths off to the superintendent and acts like the whole undertaking wasn't entirely the fault of the UNDERAGED high school kids who freaking guzzled champagne before their prom like idiots, instead of afterwards like you're supposed to.
Is it just me? Sure I knew of a few girls doing lines in the ladies' room the night of my senior prom, but I was way more interested in dancing with my smoking hot date (seriously, he was cute) and getting my picture taken than drinking at the prom.
Instead, we packed about 400 beers into the back of my friend Tim's station wagon and drove to Maine afterwards for a weekend of boozing as hard as we wanted to in peace.
(Come to think of it, prom night might have been the only time in my life I've ever booted n' rallied....I had to chug like three full beers in a row due to an unprecedented horrendous performance at speed quarters. So I walked calmly outside, barfed up a lung, then proceeded calmly back inside to drink some more. Oh, how I long to get my 17-year old liver back sometimes....)
This episode kills me as an adult because I have a big problem with how the West Beverly school board just rolls over for the supremely douchey Brandon Walsh and his supremely douchetastic pompadour.
And the way he mouths off to the superintendent and acts like the whole undertaking wasn't entirely the fault of the UNDERAGED high school kids who freaking guzzled champagne before their prom like idiots, instead of afterwards like you're supposed to.
Is it just me? Sure I knew of a few girls doing lines in the ladies' room the night of my senior prom, but I was way more interested in dancing with my smoking hot date (seriously, he was cute) and getting my picture taken than drinking at the prom.
Instead, we packed about 400 beers into the back of my friend Tim's station wagon and drove to Maine afterwards for a weekend of boozing as hard as we wanted to in peace.
(Come to think of it, prom night might have been the only time in my life I've ever booted n' rallied....I had to chug like three full beers in a row due to an unprecedented horrendous performance at speed quarters. So I walked calmly outside, barfed up a lung, then proceeded calmly back inside to drink some more. Oh, how I long to get my 17-year old liver back sometimes....)
August 13, 2007
It's Three, Three, Three Posts in One (Day)!
I couldn't shuffle off to beddy bye bye without giving an update on NewGuy:
Um, no update. He didn't call me back after letting me go to field a call from his mummy.
I don't really care, because he had said he was going out tonight when he called. So if he calls me back tomorrow I won't mind. But oh well. That's the update.
Read below if you have no idea what I'm on about.
Um, not the one just below, the one before that.
Because did I mention that this is my third post tonight? This should tide you over, you damn vultures. Oh, and my tits are still hot.
As in, temperature. Because I burned the shite out of them today.
Ew, I just had a gross mental image of boobs spurting poo out their nipples. Now you probably have it, sorry about that. And guys, don't let that image come to mind the next time you're licking a nipple. Oh, except now it totally will. Sorry about that. What can I say? Sorry!
Okay, I had a complaint a while back that my most consistent typo is on the word "because." I actually just misspelled it again. I type really fast, I've been pretty damn great at it ever since ninth grade typing class (A+, bitches!).
Yet for some reason, when I'm typing so fast, I fuck up the word because every time. And yes, I just did it again, and not on purpose. So if you see a post with just the word "because" typed over and over and over? That's why.
Now I will type it ten times without correcting any typos, let's see if I get it right even once:
Becasue because becasue because because becasue becuase beacuase because becasue.
Wow. Only four out of ten. I'm like the Eric Gagne of typing the word because. Must go practice....
Um, no update. He didn't call me back after letting me go to field a call from his mummy.
I don't really care, because he had said he was going out tonight when he called. So if he calls me back tomorrow I won't mind. But oh well. That's the update.
Read below if you have no idea what I'm on about.
Um, not the one just below, the one before that.
Because did I mention that this is my third post tonight? This should tide you over, you damn vultures. Oh, and my tits are still hot.
As in, temperature. Because I burned the shite out of them today.
Ew, I just had a gross mental image of boobs spurting poo out their nipples. Now you probably have it, sorry about that. And guys, don't let that image come to mind the next time you're licking a nipple. Oh, except now it totally will. Sorry about that. What can I say? Sorry!
Okay, I had a complaint a while back that my most consistent typo is on the word "because." I actually just misspelled it again. I type really fast, I've been pretty damn great at it ever since ninth grade typing class (A+, bitches!).
Yet for some reason, when I'm typing so fast, I fuck up the word because every time. And yes, I just did it again, and not on purpose. So if you see a post with just the word "because" typed over and over and over? That's why.
Now I will type it ten times without correcting any typos, let's see if I get it right even once:
Becasue because becasue because because becasue becuase beacuase because becasue.
Wow. Only four out of ten. I'm like the Eric Gagne of typing the word because. Must go practice....
August 12, 2007
Oh, Real World.
I think every generation has a different benchmark they measure themselves by when it comes to knowing you might actually be a "grown up."
Some might say it's when you start paying your own bills. I've been doing that for a few years though, and still tend to feel like a ten-year old most of the time, based on my proclivity for fart jokes and eating ice cream straight from the carton.
Or maybe it's when you have your first grown-up relationship; but nah, because, speaking of farts, my ex and I used to have actual fart contests (note: he always won, that guy's ass was like a nuclear weapon).
Your first real, big, grown-up, non-cosigned-by-the-parents purchase (house, car, etc)? Well, I actually haven't gotten to that one yet. So far my biggest non-cosigned purchase has been my furniture. It's nice furniture and all, and it was pretty expensive for my budget (especially at the time I bought it), but it hardly counts as much as say, a brand new car. Or a condo.
So I'm creating my own benchmark: I am too fucking old to watch The Real World. I don't understand how real grown-ups can watch this show and not want to:
a) Pray for the future of humanity
b) Wonder if I was that big an asshole when I was twenty (even though even at twenty I didn't have big giant fake tits and a perfect flat stomach and a cute-little ass that both hung out of my bathing suit and made me feel superior to the world all at the same time--a Wonder Ass!)
c) Cut a bitch
The latest batch just started. Gripe one: Why set it in Sydney but not cast any actual people from Australia? They might actually be interesting. Instead, it's just obnoxious American jackholes. What I hate about The Real World is that even the "nice" ones are jerks.
Example: Parisa. She seems cool, and there's no doubt her little in-house rival Kellyanne is a beast from hell. And I totally felt for her when one of the beetches was trashing some poor immigrant woman for not being able to speak English well--because Parisa's family is made up of immigrants from Iran.
But? She is dealing with them all the wrong way. You can't deal with slutasswhorebitches (tm my college friend Jen) by trying to play their game (ie; being a bitch). You deal with them by staying calm and letting everyone see that they don't have a skinny ass leg to stand on.
Why am I analyzing it this much?
There's this scene in "Shallow Hal," one of the more underappreciated movies in the Farrelly brothers repetoire, in which Jack Black is wondering why Gwyneth Paltrow is so funny and awesome and has such a great personality--you know, since she's so hot (since he doesn't know that she's actually 300-pounds).
His friend calls it "Ugly Duckling Syndrome," that she was ugly as a kid and dind't get hot until she grew up, so she was forced to grow a personality to get by.
This is a sick generalization, of course, and no, I'm not saying that an incredibly attractive girl can't also be funny and awesome (I'm friends with plenty of girls meeting that description).
But when I see chicks like the complete bitchfaces that populate shows like the Real World? It starts to get a little merit. When you get everything you want based solely on the pert nature of your overly tanned ass cheeks, you don't have to worry about things like, oh, being a decent human being. You can be the biggest AssBeast on the planet, and you'll still have people wanting to hang out with you, because it's human nature to be drawn to the beautiful among us--the externally as well as the internally (I assume--how else can we account for Meatloaf having had actual wives?).
And no one is denying these Real World bitches are beautiful. In that generic hot chick way (there are probably 148,000 other skanks that look just like Kellyanne and have the same exact poor attitude as she does--they probably just picked the one most likely to pick on immigrants to add a little something extra).
And I don't automatically rule a girl out of the FuFriendWorthy lotto just because she's hot shit. After all, those of us who are hot shit have to stick together (even those of us who are hot shit with, um, fat rolls).
But if there is one thing that makes me morph into a cartoon angry bull with steam coming out of my nostrils, it's when "Hot Chicks" justify their heinously bitchy actions (which normal people have had the gall to call them out for) by claiming that people are "just jealous."
This makes the veins in my neck pop out to Barry Bonds proportions and just reinforces every bad stereotype about Pretty Girls. It makes me pissed off on behalf of my friends who look every bit as good as Kellyanne in a bikini but who are also smart and interesting and wonderful people to those around them.
"But but but editing!"
Whatever. Whatever. Editing can make someone look like a bigger bitch than they may really be, and that very well may have happened here. But it can't make people say some of the shit that comes out their mouths.
WHY AM I WATCHING THIS SHOW!?
Hate!
(This all being said, I really kind of love Shavon, the girl with the breast implants the size of my head. She is hilarious. And the guy with the insanely thick Southern accent who is the second coming of Country Jon, except the exact opposite in every way except the accent (ie, he's the shiznit). And his name is Cuthoffer or some shit. No really, that's his name.)
Okay, okay, OKAAAAAy
"You realize how long it's been since you updated your blog, right?"
"Dudes, I've been busy."
"Yeah, but...."
"No seriously. Work has been insane, I've had plans all up the wahoo, my kitchen flooded, and my cats may or may not be trying to kill me in my sleep, so I've also been pretty tired lately."
"Yeah but...."
"All RIGHT already."
So here I am.
In my last post, I bitched mightily about my lack of romantic game. I'm altering my opinion slightly, because while my personality could probably use an overhaul in some respects and I definitely (no, definitely) need to get back into at least halfway decent shape (a major hindrance, no matter what all my favorite "body positivity" blogs say--it is just plain harder for the rotund of us, no matter how high our Awesomeness Quotient may be. If I had a hot ass to combine with my insanely high AQ, I'd be beating men off with a stick.), I've decided the problem really is that men are completely insane.
(Heh, "beating men off.")
I don't get you mofos, even a little, so my new strategy is complete surrender.
The guy I met that hadn't called as of last Sunday (4 days after meeting) still hadn't called as of this weekend, so I'd obviously officially written him off. Then he calls my ass up at 1015 on Saturday night, a full nine days (Obligatory Bueller principal Rooney joke here: nine times!) after our initial meeting.
I was out, of course, why he called me at 1015 on a weekend night is beyond me, he was either
a) afraid of my wrath and counting on voicemail, or
b) drunk.
Anyhow, voicemail went something like "Soooo sorry, do you remember me? Soooo sorry, my phone broke! Soooo sorry. Had fun with you, call me back. (Soooo sorry.)"
So, because a sucker is born every minute and I haven't been on a date in four months, I decided to just call him back tonight. Which I did. I got voicemail naturally, so now I'm stuck waiting around for him to call again after I'd already written him off and gotten over it the first time. It's like he called me back just to sentence me to another few days of being "Hmm, wonder if that's him" every time my phone rings. So, since it's been almost an hour and a half since I called, that's my new limit. 90 minutes. If he doesn't call in the next ten, I'm officially done again.
(Oh and never even mind that about 3 minutes after I called him, I got a call, from another "Unknown number" number, which ended being Unemployed Guy--calling me to ask me out for tonight, after no conact for the last few weeks. W. T. F.)
"Dudes, I've been busy."
"Yeah, but...."
"No seriously. Work has been insane, I've had plans all up the wahoo, my kitchen flooded, and my cats may or may not be trying to kill me in my sleep, so I've also been pretty tired lately."
"Yeah but...."
"All RIGHT already."
So here I am.
In my last post, I bitched mightily about my lack of romantic game. I'm altering my opinion slightly, because while my personality could probably use an overhaul in some respects and I definitely (no, definitely) need to get back into at least halfway decent shape (a major hindrance, no matter what all my favorite "body positivity" blogs say--it is just plain harder for the rotund of us, no matter how high our Awesomeness Quotient may be. If I had a hot ass to combine with my insanely high AQ, I'd be beating men off with a stick.), I've decided the problem really is that men are completely insane.
(Heh, "beating men off.")
I don't get you mofos, even a little, so my new strategy is complete surrender.
The guy I met that hadn't called as of last Sunday (4 days after meeting) still hadn't called as of this weekend, so I'd obviously officially written him off. Then he calls my ass up at 1015 on Saturday night, a full nine days (Obligatory Bueller principal Rooney joke here: nine times!) after our initial meeting.
I was out, of course, why he called me at 1015 on a weekend night is beyond me, he was either
a) afraid of my wrath and counting on voicemail, or
b) drunk.
Anyhow, voicemail went something like "Soooo sorry, do you remember me? Soooo sorry, my phone broke! Soooo sorry. Had fun with you, call me back. (Soooo sorry.)"
So, because a sucker is born every minute and I haven't been on a date in four months, I decided to just call him back tonight. Which I did. I got voicemail naturally, so now I'm stuck waiting around for him to call again after I'd already written him off and gotten over it the first time. It's like he called me back just to sentence me to another few days of being "Hmm, wonder if that's him" every time my phone rings. So, since it's been almost an hour and a half since I called, that's my new limit. 90 minutes. If he doesn't call in the next ten, I'm officially done again.
(Oh and never even mind that about 3 minutes after I called him, I got a call, from another "Unknown number" number, which ended being Unemployed Guy--calling me to ask me out for tonight, after no conact for the last few weeks. W. T. F.)
***12 Minutes Later***
So, score one for New Guy, because he got it in under the deadline with six minutes to spare. We chatted, but he asked if he could call me back when he got an incoming from his mom. Losing a call-waiting standoff to a mom is okay, but I wish I had a better update--since I know my romantic trials and tribulations are like, so totally fascinating to you all.
In other news, I spent yesterday in the sun at the beach (if you expand that definition to include "at the bar...at the beach"), and today laying by my pool with my mom, foolishly believing her when she pointed out how good my tan was that it would protect me from burnage.
My cleavage only needs some nice drawn butter and a little lemon, and it'd be a tasty dish! My shoulders can be for dessert, like Baked Alaska or some other en flambe craziness.
Me = Retard.
More later, I think.
So, score one for New Guy, because he got it in under the deadline with six minutes to spare. We chatted, but he asked if he could call me back when he got an incoming from his mom. Losing a call-waiting standoff to a mom is okay, but I wish I had a better update--since I know my romantic trials and tribulations are like, so totally fascinating to you all.
In other news, I spent yesterday in the sun at the beach (if you expand that definition to include "at the bar...at the beach"), and today laying by my pool with my mom, foolishly believing her when she pointed out how good my tan was that it would protect me from burnage.
My cleavage only needs some nice drawn butter and a little lemon, and it'd be a tasty dish! My shoulders can be for dessert, like Baked Alaska or some other en flambe craziness.
Me = Retard.
More later, I think.
August 5, 2007
Please, a Little Respect; for I am Fu, Queen of Having No Game
A male friend of mine was complaining the other night that he has "no game" with the ladies, all because he couldn't close on some girl that I found a bit "meh" anyway, but that's beside the point.
I find this laughable, noting correctly that he dates plenty of girls, and has had a few long-term relationships, was even engaged once, etc. His argument was that all those relationships ended. But he's still wrong, because not being able to keep a girlfriend isn't "no game," it's just bad luck. Or bad B.O.
"No game" is 30-year old guys living in their parents' basements, "Star Wars" fans, online porn enthusiasts, people who are about to turn 28 with only one long-term relationship under their belt...Oh wait, that's me (um, just the last bit, not the other stuff...although I did fall asleep on the couch the other night and wake up at 3 in the morning to a program called "Guilty Temptations" or something, it appears that HBO is trying to steal Cinemax's share of the soft-core porn market...not that I sat and watched it for 15 minutes before getting up and going to bed, ahem) (and honestly, what's with soft-core porn? I hope it's not about the "actresses" thinking it makes them less of a cheap ho..."No no no, Dad, it only looked like he was railing me from behind in the hot tub, really!" I say, if you're going to be a porno actress, at least get yourself laid in the process...)
But it's true: Fu? No game. None! Even when I have game I have no game.
Exhibit A: The guy from a few months ago. He was unemployed, a chain smoker, had a rather pronounced drinking problem, resorted to selling his personal belongings for beer money, and many other qualities that caused my friend Colleen to say "Um, no. No." And yet? He's the one that dumped me. Pathetic! I didn't get it, because he did seem quite sweet on me at first. He even asked if he could come with me to my friend's wedding ten states away because the prospect of me being away for a weekend bummed him out so much. And yet? He stopped sleeping with me after a couple weeks, and stopped calling me altogether after I made it clear that continuing to date someone and be all snuggly and affectionate and kissy while refusing to come inside at the end of the evening ever makes a girl a bit insecure, and makes her friends think you have some sort of hideous dick fungus you're hiding.
Exhibit B: met a guy at the bar the other night; he claims to remember meeting me at a party three months ago, seems really excited to run into me again, asks for my number, and says "I will definitely be calling you." in a way that was almost creepy in its determination.
So I guess I was not even concerned about whether I'd hear from him, because he was the one who was so interested in me and not vice versa; normally I'm the more aggressive one in these situations (an excellent potential reason for my lack of game--but I can't help that I'm a loudmouth who says whatever's on my mind--it's part of my charm!).
Anyhow, I might still hear from him of course, I'm just hauling out the eye-roll tonight because it's been three days, and the industry standard is two, three tops. And I don't even really care, because I didn't even talk to him for that long; I'm not moping around, just more like, "We define 'definitely' differently where I'm from, pal." (Say that five times fast!)
Possible Reasons for Fu's Lack of Game (despite the fact that she totally made out with an ADORABLE Canadian guy in Montreal last night; wooooot! Too bad he lives in effing Toronto):
1) Gut -- this is a roadblock, but I'm not sure if I give it more power than I should. I see chicks twice my size walking around hand in hand with men that aren't exactly mutants, so I know it can be done...maybe it's just that the boys I like aren't such progressive thinkers about whether their woman can have a muffin top. But don't I make up for that with my rack, and willingness to wear cleavagecentric shirts?
2) Loudmouth -- this one makes more sense. I am an obnoxious bitch, I dominate conversations without even meaning to, and I'm always right, especially about the Red Sox. I'm also pretty funny, and tend to make fun of people heavily, right to their faces. Some guys don't necessarily enjoy being called a douchebag within five minutes of meeting a chick, I guess.
3) Guy Syndrome - I tend to act dude-ish, no matter how high the pile of boxes on my shoe-wall climbs. I drink to excess, talk nonstop about the Pats and Red Sox, belch profusely (usually while doing the excessive drinking), and loudly question the sexuality of any male friend displaying pussylike tendencies. Maybe they're afraid if they like me it'll make them gay or something.
Hm. That's really all I can come up with at this point. And that list isn't even long, and yet still..no game! It's seems preposterous that anyone wouldn't be clamoring to take me to play fucking mini-golf or some shit, because I'm probably about 100 times more awesome than the last person they went mini-golfing with.
Oh, okay then, there's another thing for the list:
4) Too convinced of own awesomeness.
Must sleep now. I exerted myself in Montreal last night to the extent that my voice is off somewhere doing bong hits with my New Orleans voice (note to self: when you go places where people speak French, you end up sounding like Bea Arthur the next morning), spent all day crammed into the backseat of a car like I was a seven-foot dude at Fenway, my bed is beckoning. Just have to punt the cats off of it.
I find this laughable, noting correctly that he dates plenty of girls, and has had a few long-term relationships, was even engaged once, etc. His argument was that all those relationships ended. But he's still wrong, because not being able to keep a girlfriend isn't "no game," it's just bad luck. Or bad B.O.
"No game" is 30-year old guys living in their parents' basements, "Star Wars" fans, online porn enthusiasts, people who are about to turn 28 with only one long-term relationship under their belt...Oh wait, that's me (um, just the last bit, not the other stuff...although I did fall asleep on the couch the other night and wake up at 3 in the morning to a program called "Guilty Temptations" or something, it appears that HBO is trying to steal Cinemax's share of the soft-core porn market...not that I sat and watched it for 15 minutes before getting up and going to bed, ahem) (and honestly, what's with soft-core porn? I hope it's not about the "actresses" thinking it makes them less of a cheap ho..."No no no, Dad, it only looked like he was railing me from behind in the hot tub, really!" I say, if you're going to be a porno actress, at least get yourself laid in the process...)
But it's true: Fu? No game. None! Even when I have game I have no game.
Exhibit A: The guy from a few months ago. He was unemployed, a chain smoker, had a rather pronounced drinking problem, resorted to selling his personal belongings for beer money, and many other qualities that caused my friend Colleen to say "Um, no. No." And yet? He's the one that dumped me. Pathetic! I didn't get it, because he did seem quite sweet on me at first. He even asked if he could come with me to my friend's wedding ten states away because the prospect of me being away for a weekend bummed him out so much. And yet? He stopped sleeping with me after a couple weeks, and stopped calling me altogether after I made it clear that continuing to date someone and be all snuggly and affectionate and kissy while refusing to come inside at the end of the evening ever makes a girl a bit insecure, and makes her friends think you have some sort of hideous dick fungus you're hiding.
Exhibit B: met a guy at the bar the other night; he claims to remember meeting me at a party three months ago, seems really excited to run into me again, asks for my number, and says "I will definitely be calling you." in a way that was almost creepy in its determination.
So I guess I was not even concerned about whether I'd hear from him, because he was the one who was so interested in me and not vice versa; normally I'm the more aggressive one in these situations (an excellent potential reason for my lack of game--but I can't help that I'm a loudmouth who says whatever's on my mind--it's part of my charm!).
Anyhow, I might still hear from him of course, I'm just hauling out the eye-roll tonight because it's been three days, and the industry standard is two, three tops. And I don't even really care, because I didn't even talk to him for that long; I'm not moping around, just more like, "We define 'definitely' differently where I'm from, pal." (Say that five times fast!)
Possible Reasons for Fu's Lack of Game (despite the fact that she totally made out with an ADORABLE Canadian guy in Montreal last night; wooooot! Too bad he lives in effing Toronto):
1) Gut -- this is a roadblock, but I'm not sure if I give it more power than I should. I see chicks twice my size walking around hand in hand with men that aren't exactly mutants, so I know it can be done...maybe it's just that the boys I like aren't such progressive thinkers about whether their woman can have a muffin top. But don't I make up for that with my rack, and willingness to wear cleavagecentric shirts?
2) Loudmouth -- this one makes more sense. I am an obnoxious bitch, I dominate conversations without even meaning to, and I'm always right, especially about the Red Sox. I'm also pretty funny, and tend to make fun of people heavily, right to their faces. Some guys don't necessarily enjoy being called a douchebag within five minutes of meeting a chick, I guess.
3) Guy Syndrome - I tend to act dude-ish, no matter how high the pile of boxes on my shoe-wall climbs. I drink to excess, talk nonstop about the Pats and Red Sox, belch profusely (usually while doing the excessive drinking), and loudly question the sexuality of any male friend displaying pussylike tendencies. Maybe they're afraid if they like me it'll make them gay or something.
Hm. That's really all I can come up with at this point. And that list isn't even long, and yet still..no game! It's seems preposterous that anyone wouldn't be clamoring to take me to play fucking mini-golf or some shit, because I'm probably about 100 times more awesome than the last person they went mini-golfing with.
Oh, okay then, there's another thing for the list:
4) Too convinced of own awesomeness.
Must sleep now. I exerted myself in Montreal last night to the extent that my voice is off somewhere doing bong hits with my New Orleans voice (note to self: when you go places where people speak French, you end up sounding like Bea Arthur the next morning), spent all day crammed into the backseat of a car like I was a seven-foot dude at Fenway, my bed is beckoning. Just have to punt the cats off of it.
August 2, 2007
Real Problems
I have two addictions this summer: blogging, and 90210 reruns on SoapNet.
"Blogging?" you say. Well, yeah...I've been cheating.
Basically, I've got a LOT going on in the blogosphere for work lately, and the idea of coming home and blogging more just drains me.
Plus, when I get home I've got two episodes of 90210 waiting on my DVR. The only problem is that we've reached the end of Season 2...which means I'm going to get a face full of "Dyan and Kelly: Soulmates" bullshit. It's starting already, with Kelly sniffing her little chipmunk bitch nose at Dylan and plotting to steal him away.
I get really, incredibly, insanely angry when I watch these episodes, it's truly a problem. And don't even get me started on the "Donna as a french fashion model" storyline. It's a 15-year old tv show, and I find myself yelling things at the screen like, "Oh sure, YOU could be a model, with your fried out bushy hair and hideous horse face! Whatever!!!"
I clearly need medication.
I don't have much else to say, also. I mean, I'm boring as shit. I haven't met a single guy all summer, I've managed to gain ten pounds despite trying repeatedly to stay on a diet, and...hm. Yeah, that's it. Woooot!!!
"Blogging?" you say. Well, yeah...I've been cheating.
Basically, I've got a LOT going on in the blogosphere for work lately, and the idea of coming home and blogging more just drains me.
Plus, when I get home I've got two episodes of 90210 waiting on my DVR. The only problem is that we've reached the end of Season 2...which means I'm going to get a face full of "Dyan and Kelly: Soulmates" bullshit. It's starting already, with Kelly sniffing her little chipmunk bitch nose at Dylan and plotting to steal him away.
I get really, incredibly, insanely angry when I watch these episodes, it's truly a problem. And don't even get me started on the "Donna as a french fashion model" storyline. It's a 15-year old tv show, and I find myself yelling things at the screen like, "Oh sure, YOU could be a model, with your fried out bushy hair and hideous horse face! Whatever!!!"
I clearly need medication.
I don't have much else to say, also. I mean, I'm boring as shit. I haven't met a single guy all summer, I've managed to gain ten pounds despite trying repeatedly to stay on a diet, and...hm. Yeah, that's it. Woooot!!!
July 23, 2007
Customer Disservice
The universe of customer service is clearly out to get me, that's the only explanation. In the past week alone:
My flight home from New Orleans was canceled for no apparent reason, leaving me stranded for many tearful hours in Philadelphia, forcing me to eat a half pound of melty mints. Okay, I probably could have avoided that last part, but can you realistically tell me a single way to pass time in an airport that doesn't involve drinking or eating? I was also reading, but eating half a pound of melty mints helps to distract a person from the discomfort of airport "seating."
I discovered my new Macy's charge card actually had two separate accounts attached to it, due to its having a Visa logo, and that because I'd only made one payment (hello, it's ONE card) the other account that I did not know existed was now overdue. I talked first to a heavily accented Indian woman about this issue, and after reading her my account number and having it incorrectly read back to me for the fourth time (honestly, look, I don't really have a position on outsourcing one way or another...it's a dicey issue, but for the love of god; ENGLISH. You may not like it, but that's what we speak here in dumb old AMERICA, so if you INSIST on sending our jobs out to India, at least hire someone who can SPEAK IT. GOD.), I politely asked her if I could just try again with someone else. I even threw out the "we must have a bad connection" bone, rather than bitching at her.
She transferred me, however, to Rita. Or, as I refer to her, "&*%$##-ing Rita."
Rita was also heavily accented, but in a clipped, "Bitchy Southern Woman" way, the type that would have looked on quite disapprovingly at the shenanigans of the girls in "Shag."
Rita talked to me like I was an idiot, wouldn't let me finish a sentence without cutting me off to contradict what I was saying in the most condescending voice possible, refused to walk me through the website to show me how to make these two separate payments for the SAME GODDAMN CREDIT CARD I apparently have to make every month, and HUNG UP ON ME when I informed her I wished to speak to a supervisor.
I'd even done that in as polite a tone as possible, throwing her the "I'm sure we're just both having bad days, but I need to speak to someone else that might be able to better assist me" bone. BITCH. HUNG. UP.
The next day, I had to go to the doctor for my annual "we're just going to put this doohickey here and you're supposed to just relax and stuff" visit.
"Your appointment was yesterday."
"Um, nooo it wasn't."
"Well that's what we have in here."
"Well I actually specifically requested any day but that one when I called, because that's a day I have a major report due each week at work. So I never would have agreed to an appointment on that day."
"Well, I guess we're going to have to try and fit you in *sigh* but I can't make any promises."
"Well, I guess you're going to have to, because I left work to come down here and it has to be this week so I can renew my birth control prescription before it runs out."
"Well, we'll see."
So I sat there for over an hour, watching countless other young women, including a (quelle scandal!) pregnant girl who looked no older than 15, be shuffled in and out, getting their bits examined without delay. Fucking hell. What about my bits?
They did eventually get er done, but never did apologize.
THEN, I ended up being informed that the UPS guy delivered my Harry Potter book on Saturday, and left it "at the front door." There is no way this happened, as I was actually at home at the time they claimed they delivered it.
The next day, I swung past Dunkin for an iced coffee, was informed they were out of sweet n' low and "running kind of low on donuts."
Dunkin. Donuts. "Running kind of low on donuts."
This has not been a good week for FuService.
My flight home from New Orleans was canceled for no apparent reason, leaving me stranded for many tearful hours in Philadelphia, forcing me to eat a half pound of melty mints. Okay, I probably could have avoided that last part, but can you realistically tell me a single way to pass time in an airport that doesn't involve drinking or eating? I was also reading, but eating half a pound of melty mints helps to distract a person from the discomfort of airport "seating."
I discovered my new Macy's charge card actually had two separate accounts attached to it, due to its having a Visa logo, and that because I'd only made one payment (hello, it's ONE card) the other account that I did not know existed was now overdue. I talked first to a heavily accented Indian woman about this issue, and after reading her my account number and having it incorrectly read back to me for the fourth time (honestly, look, I don't really have a position on outsourcing one way or another...it's a dicey issue, but for the love of god; ENGLISH. You may not like it, but that's what we speak here in dumb old AMERICA, so if you INSIST on sending our jobs out to India, at least hire someone who can SPEAK IT. GOD.), I politely asked her if I could just try again with someone else. I even threw out the "we must have a bad connection" bone, rather than bitching at her.
She transferred me, however, to Rita. Or, as I refer to her, "&*%$##-ing Rita."
Rita was also heavily accented, but in a clipped, "Bitchy Southern Woman" way, the type that would have looked on quite disapprovingly at the shenanigans of the girls in "Shag."
Rita talked to me like I was an idiot, wouldn't let me finish a sentence without cutting me off to contradict what I was saying in the most condescending voice possible, refused to walk me through the website to show me how to make these two separate payments for the SAME GODDAMN CREDIT CARD I apparently have to make every month, and HUNG UP ON ME when I informed her I wished to speak to a supervisor.
I'd even done that in as polite a tone as possible, throwing her the "I'm sure we're just both having bad days, but I need to speak to someone else that might be able to better assist me" bone. BITCH. HUNG. UP.
The next day, I had to go to the doctor for my annual "we're just going to put this doohickey here and you're supposed to just relax and stuff" visit.
"Your appointment was yesterday."
"Um, nooo it wasn't."
"Well that's what we have in here."
"Well I actually specifically requested any day but that one when I called, because that's a day I have a major report due each week at work. So I never would have agreed to an appointment on that day."
"Well, I guess we're going to have to try and fit you in *sigh* but I can't make any promises."
"Well, I guess you're going to have to, because I left work to come down here and it has to be this week so I can renew my birth control prescription before it runs out."
"Well, we'll see."
So I sat there for over an hour, watching countless other young women, including a (quelle scandal!) pregnant girl who looked no older than 15, be shuffled in and out, getting their bits examined without delay. Fucking hell. What about my bits?
They did eventually get er done, but never did apologize.
THEN, I ended up being informed that the UPS guy delivered my Harry Potter book on Saturday, and left it "at the front door." There is no way this happened, as I was actually at home at the time they claimed they delivered it.
The next day, I swung past Dunkin for an iced coffee, was informed they were out of sweet n' low and "running kind of low on donuts."
Dunkin. Donuts. "Running kind of low on donuts."
This has not been a good week for FuService.
July 18, 2007
Jambalaya!
First, I so need to go on The World Series of Pop Culture. I'm recruiting a team right now, and will take whoever comes up with the best team name. I'd prefer a 90210 reference, but am willing to consider anything.
I was going to go with "8 Year Olds, Dude," but I'm afraid people will get the wrong idea.
I'm just pissed as hell that my sister, of all people, had a pub trivia team a few years back with what I'd most like to have gone with, "Lumberg Fucked Her." But I guess that's really too dirty for VH1 anyway.
So, what do you got, people?
As for my trip to New Orleans: FUN. The following happened, not necessarily in this order.
1) I innocently put my hand down on a branch to steady myself on a path leading down to a river (toobing is fun!), and wondered, when I pulled it away, why I was suddenly wearing a glove. FIRE ANTS!!!!!! I managed to only get bit four times, but let's just say I considered peeing on myself to ease the pain. I ended up peeing in my tube later on anyway, laughing so hard at the 18th beaver dam or whatever that we ended up ensnared in, but didn't manage to get my hand under there fast enough.
2) Shortly after arriving home from the toobing, was viciously attacked by a wasp. WTF, mates.
3) My sister got so drunk that she ended up refusing to tell our "designated" (as in, she was the least drunk) driver how to get home. She somehow blamed the entire debacle on me, which is, let's face it, entirely possible after 11 shots. Even if they were mostly chick shots.
4) Jambalaya at the Gumbo Shop = best Jambalya I've ever had. Granted, the only other jambalaya I'd had came in a pouch.
5) The Gumbo Shop also serves a frozen drink that, no lie, tastes precisely like Peppermint Stick ice cream............oh, sorry, I just peed a little. (It obviously don't take much.)
6) A rousing game of "I Never" at my brother-in-law's birthday party in which I learned things about my sister that, let's just face it, I cannot unlearn.
7) I cried in front of various gate agents in the Philadelphia airport.
8) Lost voice...gained seven pounds. I'm thinking my seven pound voice now resides in my ass.
All in all? Good times. Didn't meet any boys, but boys are dumb anyway. And it's kind of hard to fool around when your hand is swelled up with fire ant welts.
I'm on Day 3 of my latest attempt at detox. I expect to last until Saturday. At least I'm realistic this time...
I was going to go with "8 Year Olds, Dude," but I'm afraid people will get the wrong idea.
I'm just pissed as hell that my sister, of all people, had a pub trivia team a few years back with what I'd most like to have gone with, "Lumberg Fucked Her." But I guess that's really too dirty for VH1 anyway.
So, what do you got, people?
As for my trip to New Orleans: FUN. The following happened, not necessarily in this order.
1) I innocently put my hand down on a branch to steady myself on a path leading down to a river (toobing is fun!), and wondered, when I pulled it away, why I was suddenly wearing a glove. FIRE ANTS!!!!!! I managed to only get bit four times, but let's just say I considered peeing on myself to ease the pain. I ended up peeing in my tube later on anyway, laughing so hard at the 18th beaver dam or whatever that we ended up ensnared in, but didn't manage to get my hand under there fast enough.
2) Shortly after arriving home from the toobing, was viciously attacked by a wasp. WTF, mates.
3) My sister got so drunk that she ended up refusing to tell our "designated" (as in, she was the least drunk) driver how to get home. She somehow blamed the entire debacle on me, which is, let's face it, entirely possible after 11 shots. Even if they were mostly chick shots.
4) Jambalaya at the Gumbo Shop = best Jambalya I've ever had. Granted, the only other jambalaya I'd had came in a pouch.
5) The Gumbo Shop also serves a frozen drink that, no lie, tastes precisely like Peppermint Stick ice cream............oh, sorry, I just peed a little. (It obviously don't take much.)
6) A rousing game of "I Never" at my brother-in-law's birthday party in which I learned things about my sister that, let's just face it, I cannot unlearn.
7) I cried in front of various gate agents in the Philadelphia airport.
8) Lost voice...gained seven pounds. I'm thinking my seven pound voice now resides in my ass.
All in all? Good times. Didn't meet any boys, but boys are dumb anyway. And it's kind of hard to fool around when your hand is swelled up with fire ant welts.
I'm on Day 3 of my latest attempt at detox. I expect to last until Saturday. At least I'm realistic this time...
July 11, 2007
The Weekly Numbers, Trebek Style
Ah the Weekly Numbers. That's why I enjoy running features. When my lazy ass has absolutely dick-all to say, I can always just fire off a few "Weekly" numbers for you. There's actually a mishmash of crap to discuss from recent weeks, so the Numbers also provide a good medium to barf out all the potpourri ("Your mother's a whore, Trebek!") in my overloaded keppy.
Onto the numbers...
1: Number nights I got to stay in my beloved D.C. for a business trip a couple weeks back, and, incidentally, number of people who gave me "poor" feedback on the presentation I conducted while on said trip. How dare they. Don't they know I hardly worked at all on it and didn't practice that much?
Approx 13: Number of drinks I had in me before getting on board my flight home, after an after-work happy hour and a two-hour airport delay (that I of course spent in the handy bar right next to my gate). How is it that people are always getting thrown off planes for being intoxicated? I mean, unless you're on the side of the road in the middle of the night trying to recite the alphabet between the letters "L" and "T," it's really not that hard to disguise utter smashedness. Just keep your mouth shut (unless you're sticking gum in it).
2: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay.
1: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay that were actually on my flight, AND asked for my phone number (look at Fu, picking up dudes in an airport!).
1:30: Time in the MORNING the Airport Guy called me (SIX days after our Airport Meet-Cute), drunk and surrounded by hooting friends, wanting to know "what I was doing." I'm sure the response he was hoping for was not "What am I DOING? It's 130 in the morning, DICKSLAP!" but rather, "Well pretty soon I'm gonna be doing YOU, Airport Guy! Purrrrr!"
243: Approximate number of bottles of booze on the counter at my fourth of July party, I think we made it through about 156 of them.
3: Attempts it took before I figured out how to work my dad's grill. (I may be leaving out the fact that I had to call him up in Phoenix and ask him to tell me how to work the grill, for fear that after my first two attempts I might actually vaporize the deck, the house and the surrounding property and be left standing in the middle of it with soot all over my face and my hair standing on end, like when Wile E. Coyote's Acme bomb goes very, very wrong.)
3: Attempts it took before I actually figured out how to cook a hamburger on said grill. (I may be leaving out that after the first two burgers incinerated and fell apart in gooey chunks respectively, I had to call up Dad again to ask advice on proper burger cookage.)
1: Number of blind dates my parents' best friends have offered to set me up on with their neighbor, who may or may not be an ex-con.
0.0002: number of seconds after hearing this offer that I began to feel reeeeeeally pathetic.
2: Number of planes it's going to take me to get to New Orleans for my brother-in-law's birthday party-slash-girls' weekend with my sister and many friends tonight.
141483:1 : Odds of me actually getting on second leg of journey, as am flying standby and may end up curled up in an airport all night. You ever wonder why homeless people don't just go live at the airport, like that Tom Hanks movie? No one ever hassles people sleeping on the ground in an airport, they just assume they are stranded. Not like staying in an airport is awesome, but at least it's warm in the winter and stuff. Plus they could probably score a lot of those little mini liquor bottles, and pretend they are giants!
5: Time in the morning it was on Sunday when a friend and I rolled back into her apartment in Boston after partying all night on Saturday.
4? Approximate number of times I barfed after the lethal combination of "Many (delicious blueberry) Beers," "Many Shots," "334 Cigarettes," "Tragic Loss at Wii Bowling," and "2 Cupfuls of Turpentine Red Wine at 4 a.m." This is only a guess, as I hardly remember it, I remember only the horrendous splitting headache I woke up with on her futon at 7 a.m. after curling up there in a pathetic heap with no blanket or pillow.
28: My age in years, in about two months. Now go back and read the previous paragraph again. Now come back and slap me upside my stupid head for continuing to act so foolishly. Then make me repeat: "Just because my friend is 22 does NOT mean I am too" 50 times. Then slap me in the head again. Then hit me with a shovel to remind me how I felt that morning and why I should never, ever, ever, do that again.
25: Number of minutes until I leave work. I'd better wrap things up....
Onto the numbers...
1: Number nights I got to stay in my beloved D.C. for a business trip a couple weeks back, and, incidentally, number of people who gave me "poor" feedback on the presentation I conducted while on said trip. How dare they. Don't they know I hardly worked at all on it and didn't practice that much?
Approx 13: Number of drinks I had in me before getting on board my flight home, after an after-work happy hour and a two-hour airport delay (that I of course spent in the handy bar right next to my gate). How is it that people are always getting thrown off planes for being intoxicated? I mean, unless you're on the side of the road in the middle of the night trying to recite the alphabet between the letters "L" and "T," it's really not that hard to disguise utter smashedness. Just keep your mouth shut (unless you're sticking gum in it).
2: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay.
1: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay that were actually on my flight, AND asked for my phone number (look at Fu, picking up dudes in an airport!).
1:30: Time in the MORNING the Airport Guy called me (SIX days after our Airport Meet-Cute), drunk and surrounded by hooting friends, wanting to know "what I was doing." I'm sure the response he was hoping for was not "What am I DOING? It's 130 in the morning, DICKSLAP!" but rather, "Well pretty soon I'm gonna be doing YOU, Airport Guy! Purrrrr!"
243: Approximate number of bottles of booze on the counter at my fourth of July party, I think we made it through about 156 of them.
3: Attempts it took before I figured out how to work my dad's grill. (I may be leaving out the fact that I had to call him up in Phoenix and ask him to tell me how to work the grill, for fear that after my first two attempts I might actually vaporize the deck, the house and the surrounding property and be left standing in the middle of it with soot all over my face and my hair standing on end, like when Wile E. Coyote's Acme bomb goes very, very wrong.)
3: Attempts it took before I actually figured out how to cook a hamburger on said grill. (I may be leaving out that after the first two burgers incinerated and fell apart in gooey chunks respectively, I had to call up Dad again to ask advice on proper burger cookage.)
1: Number of blind dates my parents' best friends have offered to set me up on with their neighbor, who may or may not be an ex-con.
0.0002: number of seconds after hearing this offer that I began to feel reeeeeeally pathetic.
2: Number of planes it's going to take me to get to New Orleans for my brother-in-law's birthday party-slash-girls' weekend with my sister and many friends tonight.
141483:1 : Odds of me actually getting on second leg of journey, as am flying standby and may end up curled up in an airport all night. You ever wonder why homeless people don't just go live at the airport, like that Tom Hanks movie? No one ever hassles people sleeping on the ground in an airport, they just assume they are stranded. Not like staying in an airport is awesome, but at least it's warm in the winter and stuff. Plus they could probably score a lot of those little mini liquor bottles, and pretend they are giants!
5: Time in the morning it was on Sunday when a friend and I rolled back into her apartment in Boston after partying all night on Saturday.
4? Approximate number of times I barfed after the lethal combination of "Many (delicious blueberry) Beers," "Many Shots," "334 Cigarettes," "Tragic Loss at Wii Bowling," and "2 Cupfuls of Turpentine Red Wine at 4 a.m." This is only a guess, as I hardly remember it, I remember only the horrendous splitting headache I woke up with on her futon at 7 a.m. after curling up there in a pathetic heap with no blanket or pillow.
28: My age in years, in about two months. Now go back and read the previous paragraph again. Now come back and slap me upside my stupid head for continuing to act so foolishly. Then make me repeat: "Just because my friend is 22 does NOT mean I am too" 50 times. Then slap me in the head again. Then hit me with a shovel to remind me how I felt that morning and why I should never, ever, ever, do that again.
25: Number of minutes until I leave work. I'd better wrap things up....
July 7, 2007
Am I Too Young for Nostalgia?
There is literally nothing on TV this summer.But SoapNet is in the middle of first season re-runs of 90210. It's like sixth grade all over again!
Except...wow. First off, in the sixth grade, I really don't recall wearing some of the daisy-covered crap currently burning my retinas (though I guess I can admit to an actual plaid blazer with shoulder pads that I lusted after in the Gap...luckily my mother refused to shell out the fifty bucks; she recognized the hideousness thank the lord).
But what's bothering me the most isn't the clothes (all the girls wear mom jeans that give them huglely massive gunts--they can't weigh more than 120 or 125 each (which yeah, was actually pretty fat compared to today's 98-pound weaklings), but those damn things make them look freaking porky! No wonder boot-cut low-rises came in, sheesh), or the ridiculous storylines (Brenda meeting beatnik types at a coffee house and doing "stand-up comedy" in which she complains that housesitting is hard?), or even Steve Sanders' fro-mullet.
What's bothering me is that the object of my undying preteen lust, one Dylan McKay...well. Hm. I actually had a poster of this man that I kissed goodnight on a nightly basis in my room. And while real-life Luke Perry was only about 25 when the show started, younger than I am now...well the receding hairline (sideburns don't hide that, chief) and massive forehead wrinkles?
Why was everyone all over Steve Sanders and Andrea Zuckerman for being the token oldies?
June 26, 2007
Fu and TeeVee, Sittin' in a Tree...
You know how I always say "TV is good for you?"It's allegedly tongue in cheek, no matter how much I argue that my weekly intake of hotness that is Franco on "Rescue Me" is vital to my health and well being. (No really, hotness on that show, and not just Franco. Is every man just hotter in a firefighter uniform? Even Denis Leary is hot on this show, and I never once found the man even remotely attractive, except for his onscreen flirtation with the Hotness of Renee Russo Before She Got Weird-Looking in "The Thomas Crown affair," and his accent, which I can never quite pinpoint as precisely Boston but is still hot. But I don't like how everyone always interviews him on those Red Sox World Series DVDs. Is it too much to ask for a little Damon/Affleck action? Sheesh, Ben is only out there at every damn important homegame. Remember when he had a movie career? Where was I?)
But really, I can't believe it took me almost 28 years to realize the glory that is the Sleep Timer.
I've never been a morning person. Getting out of bed, for this chick, is basically the worst possible thing to happen in my usual day. Which explains some of my epic snoozefests of the past, including one beauty from when I first moved into my own apartment (no one to judge me!) and slept one Friday night from two in the morning until three in the afternoon the next day. Without even getting up to pee. I really don't know how I accomplished this, and I really don't think I'll ever duplicate it. I'm so old now that the next time I sleep for that long, I might not wake up at all.
So, I'm the girl who sleeps through her alarm and is late for work several times a year, reigning Queen of the Snooze Button (for what it's worth, also reigning Queen of Showing Up to Work with Wet Hair Due to Lack of Time to Dry it Due to Oversleeping; Queen of Showing Up to Work with Dirty Hair Due to Lack of Time to Even Shower Due to Oversleeping; Queen of Using a Sick Day for No Reason Other Than Just.Can't.Get.Out.Of.BED.; and Queen of All Things Awesome--just cuz).
I've always just thought I was a night person. I never get sleepy at night, I always end up reading until the wee hours, or getting trapped into a movie that started at 11, etc. etc. etc.
That is, until about just over a week ago, when my entire life changed forever. The Sleep Timer!
I decided to watch "Army Wives" in bed last Sunday night. I was about 20 minutes in when I shut my eyes and didn't open them again until the alarm blared to life at 730 the next morning. Whuzzuh? How now? Hrmph? I didn't even NEED to press snooze. (I know! That's apparently what happens when you fall asleep at 10:20 and sleep straight through the night.)
The next night I figured, "Well, let's watch that 'Law and Order Special Victims Unit' episode in bed, and maybe set the timer whooziewhatsit so it shuts off...just in case you fall asleep again."
I think I only experienced about 10 minutes of the Hotness of Detective Eliot Stabler before I was snoozing heavy.
WTF, mates? How did I not know before that watching TV in bed puts people to sleep? I've never felt more rested in my life! In fact, for the last four business days straight (and Sunday, although that was later in the morning) I've pulled my rested old booty out of bed at SIX-FIFTEEN to hit up the gym for an hour before work (I know!!!). Just because I'm falling asleep so fast and early that I don't need to sleep until 730 anymore. Holy shit!
And I owe it all to TV.
Oh, TV! Sniff, just when I thought you couldn't find another way to enrich my life aside from all those "Roseanne" marathons on Nickleodeon.
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